Happy New Year
Ded Moroz and Snegurochka were battling Baba Yaga, and
the Twilight Zone marathon had marched on to
“The Midnight Sun” when
the robust Arabic digits on the
garage sale alarm clock
flickered from 59 to 00,
triggering gooseflesh like an icy swig of blueberry lassi
after a thermal mouthful of vegetable vindaloo.
At a beige basin lit by spherical bulbs
that should have lined Ava Gardner’s mirrors,
I slathered a smear of ash-hued exfoliant,
pulling and dragging drugstore apricot kernels
across a countenance tepid with tap water
to tackle twelve months of crud:
the ghosts of encrusted snot from the head cold
groggily contracted on that cruel five a.m. flight from San Juan,
the minuscule souvenirs of smoke from Dmitriy’s sequence of cigarettes
dragged on during parking lot prattle about panic attacks,
the dregs of dust driven from between the clacking black laptop keys I
hammered on to rout homelessness,
the spittle sprayed from Vladi’s warm, wormlike lips when they invaded
the dimple in my unshaven chin behind a cheap third-floor Days Inn door.
Cleansed by clumsy fat fingers, my face is flushed
from the rite of epidermal redemption
with cells screaming to be repolluted.
Jonesing for Juice
I yearn to sext with you
while embracing a juice fast,
polluting the mind deliciously as I
purify the body with modish bone-headedness.
You snake your syllables around my screen
the second the exclusive elixir laps at my lips.
I imbibe your made-up mixture of sweat and spit with
my cool concoction of kale, collards and cucumber,
your carnal chimeras of fornication on scarlet sheets
shimmering with blood-hued beet stains on my tongue.
You type with the gusto of a gazillion green M&Ms,
with me guzzling glass after glass of green glop,
pressing on for the promised reward
of nut milk.
Adrian Slonaker works as a copywriter and copy editor in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, USA. Adrian’s poetry has appeared in Amaryllis, The Mackinac, Eunoia Review, Aberration Labyrinth, Nixes Mate Review and others.